Coin-operated crushes
The back of your tiny hand brushed against my hoof. "You're so Vain" poured through the circular in-ceiling speaker directly above us. You kept running, your ponytail wagging back and forth as if waving goodbye.
Then you stopped. My heart quickened. You were coming back!
But you were just pausing long enough to trigger the automatic door with your tiny feet. I remember you wore Keds - pink ones, with yellow and blue happy face stickers peeling off the sides.
By the time you made your way through that parking lot and into your chain-smoking mother's burgundy '79 Sunbird, my long face had grown even longer. And that's saying a lot, coming from a horse.
--
The way the blue paint had chipped and fallen from my face left a splotchy bit of rust that resembled Gorbachev's birthmark. But unlike Gorbachev, I was no prize-winning diplomat. I wasn't even a prize-winning horse. I was just a coin-operated hunk of metal that took pleasure in stealing from children. They'd slip in quarters and I would feign sleep until they would just go away.
Only once after after my looks had faded did I ever feel the electricity shoot from my ass to my forelock in such a way that I was inclined to move, to rock, to undulate.
He was the only one who had ever bothered to look past my rust-scarred snout into my tired eyes. He really looked at me, His mouth was slack but expressive. His eyes burned like love.
The back of your tiny hand brushed against my hoof. "You're so Vain" poured through the circular in-ceiling speaker directly above us. You kept running, your ponytail wagging back and forth as if waving goodbye.
Then you stopped. My heart quickened. You were coming back!
But you were just pausing long enough to trigger the automatic door with your tiny feet. I remember you wore Keds - pink ones, with yellow and blue happy face stickers peeling off the sides.
By the time you made your way through that parking lot and into your chain-smoking mother's burgundy '79 Sunbird, my long face had grown even longer. And that's saying a lot, coming from a horse.
--
The way the blue paint had chipped and fallen from my face left a splotchy bit of rust that resembled Gorbachev's birthmark. But unlike Gorbachev, I was no prize-winning diplomat. I wasn't even a prize-winning horse. I was just a coin-operated hunk of metal that took pleasure in stealing from children. They'd slip in quarters and I would feign sleep until they would just go away.
Only once after after my looks had faded did I ever feel the electricity shoot from my ass to my forelock in such a way that I was inclined to move, to rock, to undulate.
He was the only one who had ever bothered to look past my rust-scarred snout into my tired eyes. He really looked at me, His mouth was slack but expressive. His eyes burned like love.